


the shaman and the saint

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King, Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Seriously... what is this pairing, This is My Design, blame my girlfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garth of Samarkand and Pere Callahan at a Way Station between worlds.<br/>Because I apparently can't stop pairing random Dark Tower characters with Albion's most famous Hero of Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shaman and the saint

Two men meet in a clearing.

Some people may read that opening line and think nothing much of it. Others may read it and be intrigued -- why such a vague opening? Who were the two men? Was it a friendly meeting?

Others may read it and be disturbed. Who starts a story with the death of its main players?

It doesn't matter. This is how the story begins.

Two men meet in a clearing.

One man wears a tether in the form of a thin red string, looped loosely around his wrists, his ankles, his neck, and disappearing into somewhere beyond the clearing. He kneels before the other man, prone upon the grass, staring at him uncomprehendingly.

"I remember you," the prone man whispers, as the tethered man pulls him upright. "You don't belong here."

"Neither do you," the tethered man responds. One of his eyes is white, blind-like, but not blind. Not at all.

The other man laughs, suddenly. The colours of the clearing aren't so bright anymore. He can barely feel the ground beneath his feet.

"Well, I guess there's nothing to be done except..." He gestures towards the aether beyond them, glancing at the man tethered to one -- or all -- of the worlds it obscures.

The tethered man draws them a door, with his hand, his hand that channels something blue-white and electric. The door opens, but before it does, the other man sees what is writ upon it.

_The Shaman and the Saint._

"Which one is you and which one am I?" he asks glibly, but the tethered man only laughs at him, and he finds himself laughing back. When he touches the door's knob, he feels something engraved upon it -- the number six, in Roman numerals.

"Of course," he says, understanding, as he steps through the door. "Of course..."

___________________________________________________________

"I remember you," Donald Callahan says again, but his voice is thin and weak, and he is lying down again. This time, he cannot be pulled upright so easily. Still, underneath the wounds and the fever, he can feel energy like he'd not felt in a long time -- not youth, not quite, he would never be young again; but _vitality,_ strength beyond the physical, an indomitable force of will.

The other man is no longer tethered -- well, that isn't right, either. The tethers just aren't visible. And wherever he touches Callahan, he feels a pulsing warmth that matches the markings on his skin, glowing markings that shifted subtly as if alive, breathing. Callahan is being healed, slowly, but steadily.

"You were with Roland," he tries again, and the healer casts him a severe look -- _Stop trying to speak._ "I remember..."

He trails off. The healer continues to work. Searching warmth that makes Callahan uncomfortably aware of every organ, every artery, every joint in his sinewy body. His muscles relax into the pallet beneath him. He closes his eyes, feeling his body knit back together, feeling his consciousness reintegrate with his body after the long journey to the clearing and back, feeling a strange drowsy affection for the man whose hands brought him such comfort and peace.

"I _was_ with Roland," the healer affirms, quietly, after some time. "I was with him until the White Lands. Then I was... recalled."

"So you never saw the Tower, either," Callahan muses.

"Not then," Garth corrects, "no."

"Wait... I was not dead long. I couldn't be, I was only in the clearing, I wasn't... how did you come for me, if you...?"

"You assume things about time and space and All-World that I wouldn't expect from a traveller of hidden highways," the healer replies dryly, and Callahan grunts, an amused conceding of the point.

"I don't remember your name, though. Why don't I remember it?"

"Most people don't remember me at all, once they've moved on. I don't know how it is that you do." The healer withdraws his hands, stands.

"My name is Garth. Now, sleep."

Callahan is powerless to disobey.

___________________________________________________________

Rested, healed, Callahan gets up from the pallet and takes his first step into the sunlight.

"Well, where the hell am I now?" he asks, not surprised at his disorientation.

"The Way Station," Garth responds, leaning against the porch railing.

"No... no, I remember the Way Station. I've been there before. This looks nothing like that place."

"Are you foolish enough to believe there is only _one_ Way Station, Callahan?"

Callahan thinks about this, makes a _hunh_ sound in the back of his throat, shrugs. "Can't argue with that."

"This one is... I call it _mine._ When I pass through the clearing, I always come out here.  
It's safe. The King's agents never find me. There is water, and there is food. And when it's time to move on, the door always leads true."

"How long will we be here before we move on?"

"You'll know," Garth says, pushing off the railing and smiling wryly at him, "when you open the door one day and it doesn't lead out here anymore."

___________________________________________________________

The door keeps opening onto the porch in the middle of Nowhere. Garth and Callahan get used to each other. Callahan swears by Garth's bread, but doesn't hesitate to teach the other man how to brew beer with the wheat, either. Garth finds that whiling away the time oiling and braiding his hair while listening to one of Callahan's meandering tales is immensely comforting.  
Callahan gets bold after some of his brew and asks Garth to teach him 'how he does that' with his hair. Garth finds that Callahan's spidery fingers feel good on his scalp. Callahan grows fond of the unexpected softness of the white coils in his hands.

"I used to drink a lot more than this," Callahan recalls, gazing into the half-full mug. "A _lot_ more. Probably embalmed myself, which would explain how I keep coming back." He chuckles, then drains the mug.

"I miss them," he says suddenly. "I miss them," he repeats, "all of them," his voice breaking on the 'all', and when Garth lays a questioning hand on his shoulder, he drops his head like a lead weight and shudders. "Oh, God, I... oh, _God..."_

"I know," Garth murmurs, simple words, quiet words, but Callahan sobs, sobs again when the man's arm encircles him and pulls him close, and the sound is wretched, wrenched up from deep within him and torn from his throat, racking his body again and again. Garth just holds him tighter, a bind against the shattering, nestling his hand in the shock of white hair and resting his chin on his knuckles.

"Where would I be without you?" His face is wet with tears when he raises it, his eyes red-rimmed but their gaze keen, locking with Garth's own, searching. "You came from the... from the nothing, dragged me back here, and I almost didn't want to come, I felt like I'd been ripped apart, and not just by those vampires, you know, but by... by loss, by pain, but you made me forget it-- no, not _forget_ it, not that exactly, but... it's _easier,_ with you."

Garth wants to say something in return, offer his own confession, but his throat's closed. He tilts his head until his forehead rests against Callahan's, and they sit like that for a moment, close enough to kiss. Their bodies sway, a tidal ebb and flow, until Garth lowers his head to rest in the deep hollow between Callahan's throat and shoulder.

"Oh, my Elijah," Callahan sighs, sounding broken-hearted, "my sweet Elijah, I hope you know, I pray every night that you never leave here. I am a coward, I know, but I... I..."

___________________________________________________________

He never finishes the sentence, because he is a coward. So he believes, and his belief has always been the strongest part of him.

But one day, a late afternoon, after a friendly game of dominoes, Garth opens the door, and the porch is gone.

"No," Callahan gasps, rising so fast the chair is knocked back, clattering on the dusty wooden floor. "No!"

"Time to go," Garth says, staring at the strange landscape beyond, his voice queerly flat.

"Don't leave me here..." Callahan can't stop, the words spilling forth like a river through a broken dam. "Don't, we've not had long, not long at all, I..."

"You what?" Garth asks, turning, giving Callahan his profile.

Callahan shakes his head mutely, stricken, his face pale.

"Callahan." Garth's voice is rebuking, but gentle. He turns further, facing the other man.

"I..." But the words are stuck in his throat, and he shakes his head again, his shoulders dropping, his eyes sad, tired, but hopeful.

And Garth smiles wryly, and shrugs, and holds his hand out.

"We must move on, ka-mate," he reminds him, "but there is no reason why we must move apart."  
They face the door side-by-side.  
And they step through.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, the VI on the doorknob is a reference to tarot.


End file.
